


the witching influence of the air

by garafthel (sister_wolf)



Series: Sofa-Bedtime Stories [3]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Pre-Relationship, Slow Build, Unresolved Romantic Tension, past Ichabod Crane/Katrina Crane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:20:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_wolf/pseuds/garafthel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ichabod wrestles with his conscience, discovers that French Fries are the second-best thing about the 21st century, and finally has a very important conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the witching influence of the air

**Author's Note:**

> Set before and during 1x05, "John Doe." Two lines of dialogue are taken directly from the show.

Ichabod expected to sleep poorly if at all the night after he and Miss Abigail Mills shared a kiss on the sofa in her living room. As it turned out, he fell quickly into a deep sleep which was troubled only by a single dream.

He was wandering through a dark woods in heavy fog. He did not know where he was going or where he had been. An indistinct light emanated from the fog, lighting the scene in a crepuscular glow. He turned in a circle, attempting to get his bearings, and when he completed the circle Katrina stood before him.

"Katrina!"

She cocked her head to the side, her eyes tracking something moving behind him. Ichabod checked over his shoulder, but nothing was there.

"Katrina?"

Her eyes finally focused on him and she smiled a little but did not speak.

"Katrina, I must tell you something. Please, listen to me," he said as she looked to the side at something he could not see. Her eyes drifted back to him. "I have been unfaithful to you," he admitted with a crushing sense of guilt.

Katrina wavered in and out of view. She shook her head as if to indicate she could not hear him.

"I have been unfaithful--" Ichabod shouted, but the very vehemence of his declaration shook him out of sleep. He sat up, gasping.

Had that been a true dream, real communication between the world of the flesh and that of the spirit, or simply a phantom of the sleeping mind?

He sat on the edge of the folding couch--what Miss Mills referred to as a sofa-bed--and idly contemplated his bare feet against the worn wooden floorboards.

There was no way to know with any degree of certainty if that had been a true dream, but it felt as if it had not, he decided. The setting had been indistinct and the shade of Katrina that he had seen did not have any of her familiar vibrant spark. He had succeeded in admitting his infidelity to a mere figment of his imagination.

He heard the quiet sounds of Miss Mills moving around in her bedroom. Miss Abigail, he corrected himself. 

If she still wished for him to speak to her so familiarly after his terrible indiscretion of the evening before. The facts of the case were these: they had shared a kiss as ardent as those shared between lovers. There was no way to soften the blow by calling it an affectionate kiss between friends. It had been... highly passionate.

He swallowed hard, trying not to remember the exquisite softness of her lips or the warm press of her bosom against his chest.

What he needed was work. Good, clean physical work would help chase these devils of desire from his mind. Ichabod put on his boots and sprang to his feet, pausing only to shrug on his coat.

"Running away?" Miss Abigail asked.

Ichabod jumped, taken by surprise. He had not realized that she had opened her door. He turned to see her leaning against the frame of her bedroom door. "Not at all. I simply wish to repay your hospitality as best I can."

"You don't need to repay my hospitality. We're friends, right? Now if you were planning on staying here for a while, I'd have to start charging you rent."

"We are... friends then? Still?"

She looked exasperated. "Of course we are."

There was no "of course" about it, as far as Ichabod was concerned. He was grateful for her generosity of spirit. Truly, he could not have asked for a finer partner in this endeavor than Miss Abigail Mills.

"You have my sincere gratitude--"

"Finish that sentence and find out if I'm bluffing when I say that I'll shoot you."

He closed his mouth so abruptly that his teeth clicked together. He doubted that she would ever seriously attempt to harm him, but he felt that it was best not to press his luck when she had that particular look in her eyes.

"Come on, I'm going to put you to work chopping veggies. Days off deserve omelettes. Did they have those in your time?" She didn't wait for an answer, walking away toward the kitchen without waiting to see if he was following.

"Yes, of course I will assist you, but first I have an inquiry. Miss Abigail, I would like to repay your hospitality with the labor of my body. Where is your wood pile? I can lay in a supply of firewood after breakfast," he said, gesturing to the fireplace in her living room.

She stopped and turned around, holding a hand up. "Wait, no, hold up. First off, I do not have a pile of trees waiting to be made into firewood--"

"Whyever not?" he asked, alarmed that she seemed to be not at all prepared for winter.

"Because second, that fireplace hasn't worked in probably longer than I've been alive. The building has steam heat," she said, pointing to an odd arrangement of metal pipes in a standing rectangle by her wall.

"Steam heat?" Ichabod traced the pipes with his eyes, musing aloud, "So water is heated to boiling somewhere in a central location of the building and then the steam is forced through a series of metal pipes, heating the entire building? Ingenious."

He couldn't quite interpret her expression. "Yeah, that's highly advanced, probably Victorian-era technology for you."

That was definitely sarcasm, which she persisted in believing was an invention of recent vintage and that Ichabod was entirely oblivious to it. 

"Then is there no service I might render you in thanks for your hospitality?"

He thought her eyes flickered downward for a moment. "Well, you can help me fix up Corbin's cabin. Turns out he willed it to me, for some crazy reason."

"Splendid. We should go at once."

She looked a bit taken aback at his eagerness. "Okay, sure. We can do omelettes some other time. We'll grab some fast food on the way up to the lake."

Ichabod took comfort that she appeared to take it as written that the two of them would have occasion to share breakfast at her residence again.

***

What she called "fast food" was a bizarre combination of delicious and revolting. The breaded chicken pieces were a strange texture that resembled no chicken he'd ever eaten. The formed patty of ground beef folded between two pieces of insubstantial bread was adequate. However, the fried slices of potato were truly exceptional.

"You want my fries?" The question was accompanied by the food in question being offered to him in such a way that he either needed to grab them or risk them falling to the floorboards.

"My thanks." There was silence for a few minutes as he enjoyed the fried potatoes and tried not to sneak surreptitious glances at the way that she sucked on the end of a white and red striped plastic straw. It was practically indecent and he felt ashamed of himself for finding it so... fascinating.

"Do you intend to move household to the cabin?" 

"What? No, I just want to fix it up a little. Patch up the bullet holes, that kind of thing. I already had a glazier out to repair all the windows that got shot out. Expensive as--uh, expensive as all get-out, but it was Corbin's place and he gave it to me. I couldn't just let it fall to pieces."

"So you've repaired it but will then leave it to sit empty?" It seemed a shame to him. What she referred to as a cabin was an above average-sized house for the Colonies. 

"Why, you want to live there?" The question was asked casually, as if she fully expected the answer to be no. Then her voice sharpened as she repeated, " _Do_ you want to live there? Irving's been complaining about the drain on the departmental budget from putting you up at the motel for weeks on end. It's not exactly a palace, but at least it has running water. And you'd be doing me a favor by keeping an eye on the place."

The suggestion was a welcome one. He intensely disliked the motel with its paper-thin walls and lack of privacy. "I would be pleased to act as caretaker to the cabin."

"Great," she said, flashing him a smile. "Then we'll swing by a grocery store on the way up to the lake and pick you up some basic supplies."

At the grocery store, a sort of enormous dry-goods store incorporating a butcher's and a baker's as well as a dizzying variety of fruits and vegetables, Ichabod noticed that there were people staring at him. He supposed that to their eyes he must look odd or out of place.

A young woman approached him as he examined the display of enormous, strangely shiny-looking apples. "I'm sorry to bother you, I just wanted to ask... are you a re-enactor?" she asked with a shy smile.

"I do beg your pardon. Am I a what?"

She turned pink. "Oh my god, you're not breaking character! That's awesome."

Ichabod's left eye twitched at the casual blasphemy. However, he had already been "read the riot act," as she put it, by Miss Abigail on why he could not take people to task for blasphemy. Instead he inclined his head and thanked her politely. The woman made a quiet squeaking noise and hurried away.

"I can't take you anywhere. You just made her year, you realize," Miss Abigail said, appearing at his elbow.

Ichabod turned to follow her as she walked briskly down the aisle. "I have no idea what you mean. She thought that I was a re-enactor. What is a re-enactor?"

"A re-enactor is someone who dresses up in historical costume and acts out events from history, usually battles. There are a lot of Revolutionary war re-enactors in this area, she must have thought you were one of them."

"People dress up in the uniforms of the Continental Army and hold mock battles? That is repugnant. Why do they do such a thing?"

She shrugged. "I didn't say I understood why they do it. But it does give us a good cover for why you're wandering around in a Revolutionary war uniform."

He pondered that while she finished making her purchases and proceeded to the cashier. The total read out by a bored-sounding young man with colorful tattoos on his arms (perhaps a former sailor?) nearly made Ichabod's jaw drop to the floor. Miss Abigail paid it without comment using one of the embossed cards that served as a form of currency in this era.

Ichabod watched her out of the corner of his eye while she drove along the winding road which led to the cabin. Her forehead was relaxed, the faint lines of strain around her mouth had disappeared, and her small hands were deft and assured as she steered the vehicle. 

Being silent with her felt comfortable. He had always felt that the sign of a true friendship was the ability to sit quietly together without feeling the need to fill the silence with meaningless words.

Katrina and he had been like that, once. He felt a ribbon of shame twist through his guts as he found himself admiring Miss Abigail's lovely profile in his peripheral vision.

"What? Do I have ketchup on my face?" She brushed the back of one hand across her mouth, smearing the edge of her pale pink lip rouge. He found the sight oddly compelling. "You keep staring."

"I apologize. I will not do it again," Ichabod said, turning his head to stare out the front window determinedly.

"You're being weirder than usual. Did the re-enactor thing freak you out that much?" The gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the motorized carriage as they drew up in front of the cabin. She turned off the engine and shifted in her seat to face him, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

He briefly considered lying, but that would be disrespectful to her. "No, it is not that. I am afraid that I must beg your patience as I wrestle with certain thoughts which are troubling my mind."

"Okay," she drawled. ("Okay" was a word which appeared to have no limits to its potential meanings. It could be used to say both yes and maybe, to inquire after one's well-being, or to indicate readiness. Or it could be, as in this case, used to imply that he was being "weird," as she would phrase it. All of these meanings were communicated solely through inflection. It was fascinating.)

Miss Abigail was staring at him. He thought that perhaps he had paused too long in contemplation of the various meanings of the word "okay." "I was thinking of Katrina," he said in partial explanation.

A flash of emotion that he couldn't quite parse crossed her face before her expression turned determinedly blank. "Alright. Well, let's go settle you into your new home sweet home, shall we?"

As he followed her into the cabin, he found himself wondering if he would ever feel entirely at home in this era.

***

In his pain and delirium, he thought that he heard Miss Abigail telling him to hold on. Ichabod opened his eyes briefly, seeing her face as she leaned over him. "You're going to be okay."

"Which... meaning of "okay"... are we using today?" He could barely hear his own voice.

She smiled even though her eyes looked wet with tears. "If you're well enough to be a smart-ass, Crane, then you're definitely going to survive this."

His eyes fluttered closed again despite his best efforts to keep them open. He thought that he felt the gentle brush of her lips against his brow, but surely he was imagining it. She was too clever to risk contracting the Roanoke colonists' illness that way.

He felt himself falling, falling, and then with a jolt he found himself once more standing in the grey nowhereland that Katrina called Purgatory. He felt more solid this time somehow, as if he were truly there rather than dreaming. He suspected that this was not a good sign for the health of his mortal body.

"Ichabod!" he heard Katrina cry as if from a great distance. "You cannot be here. It is not safe!"

He turned to face her, finding that despite the distant sound of her voice she stood only ten or so feet from him. "Katrina. I must tell you something." His guilt pulsed in his chest like a burning coal.

Katrina's eyes widened. "What is it?"

Ichabod tried to move closer to her but it was as if there was an invisible barrier between them. "I have been unfaithful to you."

She frowned thoughtfully. "When?"

That was not the response he had expected. "Two days ago."

She smiled gently. "Oh, Ichabod. You do not have to feel guilty for being unfaithful to my memory."

"But you are not just a memory! You are here and I have dishonored our marriage."

"Darling Ichabod..." Katrina raised a hand as if to caress the side of his face. "I am dead, my love. I died over two centuries ago while you lay trapped in enchanted sleep. You are a widower."

 _A widower_. He gasped against the feeling of a great weight pressing down on his chest. "No! Katrina, you say you are trapped here, but surely if I can free you--!"

She shook her head. "If you free me, I will pass from this world into the next. I cannot return to the world of the living. Only evil things come back."

The world began to swim around him, the dark forest becoming foggy and indistinct. 

Only Katrina's face remained clear as she called to him above the sound of roaring wind, "Remember, Ichabod! Only evil things come back!"

Then the forest disappeared and he floated in darkness once more.

"Crane! You have to wake up! I can't carry your heavy ass."

Gasping, he opened his eyes and saw that Miss Abigail was leaning over him again. 

"Did you just call me an ass?"

Tears glistened in her eyes as she smiled down at him fondly. "No, Crane, I said your ass was heavy. Because you're about seven feet tall."

Ichabod sat up slowly with her help. He appeared to be on a pallet in some sort of large motorized carriage. The rear doors were open, showing the side of the road near the park where they had found the Roanoke colonists. Thomas lay on another pallet near him, still unconscious. 

"Nonsense, Miss Abigail. I am barely an inch over six feet in height."

She rolled her eyes at him. "That doesn't change the fact that you are way too heavy for me to carry. Come on, I don't know how long Irving is going to be able to cover up the fact that I just committed grand theft ambulance. Let's get Thomas back to his village."

"You stole this vehicle? I am beginning to suspect that I am a bad influence on you."

He thought that perhaps she blushed a little. "You're a terrible influence, Crane. Come on."

***

Later, as they stood in an overgrown clearing that no longer held a hallucinatory colony of centuries-dead Roanoke colonists, Miss Abigail told him that she had feared that he might have chosen to stay in the lost colony. 

Feared was not the word she used, but he saw it in her eyes. She had been terribly worried, not just that he would die of the Roanoke colonists' sickness, but that he might leave her.

"But Crane... believe me when I say that you belong in Sleepy Hollow. In the here and now."

He had been tempted, he could not deny that. And yet as he met her eyes, he had to admit if only to himself that he could not have done it. He could not have left her behind.

Katrina's voice echoed in his mind. _You do not have to feel guilty for being unfaithful to my memory._

"Well," he said in a deliberately light-hearted tone. "What do you say we go home?"

 _Perhaps_ , he thought, meeting her beautiful brown eyes and seeing the relief that she tried to hide. _Perhaps there is something worth staying for._

As they walked back through the sunlit forest, Ichabod Crane admitted to himself that, looming apocalypse or no, he felt happy to be by Miss Abigail Mills's side.

To be going home.


End file.
